


Young & Foolish

by belivaird_st



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 21:45:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16457702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belivaird_st/pseuds/belivaird_st
Summary: A past love when Carol and Harge were not married yet, but simply courting...





	Young & Foolish

“Harge, take me home.”

Her boyfriend’s neighbor wraps his arm around her shoulders in the back of the Cadillac. He reeks of alcohol, olives, and sweat. “Wha’ssa matter, Doll Face? You not likin’ our night ride?” He hiccups and starts grinning the minute she shoves him off. His name is Howie Morhs. He’s twenty-four years of age.

“Quit being a stick in the mud, Carol!” exclaims Henry Pratt from the passenger seat. Henry seems more sober than Howie, but not much. He is another neighbor, another friend. He has a left glass eye from playing with some firecrackers back when he was eleven years old. He tripped on his shoelaces and fell right into them the minute they were set off. He made a full recovery with one eye missing. Twelve years later, Henry Pratt is twenty-three years old.

“Hey. Don’t talk to her like that,” Harge warns out from behind the steering wheel. The oldest one out of the bunch, and the most ill-tempered, Harge Aird has only taken a couple drinks tonight after a long hour spent at the Foxtail with his buddies and his best girl— Carol Catherwood.

“So sorry, Joe,” Henry apologizes. The reason why he calls Harge ‘Joe’ Carol does not know. All she knows is that right now she’s excruciatingly tired and fed up for being stuck inside the backseat with Howie the Perv.

“I just want to go home, Harge. Right now,” Carol says louder this time and more discreet. She can start to feel Howie’s stinky warm breath blowing against her cheek. His eyes are bloodshot and droopy and sad. He wiggles his thick, hairy eyebrows at her and grins.

“We need to make a few stops first,” Harge tells her, stepping his foot on the gas pedal the second the traffic light turns green. Henry bends over to pick up a beer bottle that rests between his work boots. He takes a swig from the amber glass lip of the bottle and taps his free hand on the smooth royal blue paint outside of his car door. 

Carol feels a tightening in her throat. She abruptly smacks Howie’s greasy, dirt-nailed fingers away from her face. “If you touch me again, I’ll scream,” she threatens the drunken brute. He giggles and stuffs both of his hands down between his denim legs.

Harge has driven them through a suburban neighborhood, but it’s not hers. He slowly pulls over and stops the car along the front of a house.

“I want everybody to get out,” he says.

All four of them, except for Carol, throw rolls of toilet paper at the front yard of the house—the big oak tree, the gazebo, a red tricycle. Harge, Henry, and Howie, are having the time of their lives. Carol just stands there in her mink coat, holding up a roll of toilet paper with a look of distress and shame. She doesn’t see the fun in doing this—vandalizing someone else’s property.

Harge orders everybody back into the car. They drive a couple more blocks with to do the same thing again. Trees. Porch balcony. A marble birdbath. Carol drops her full roll of toilet paper onto the sidewalk and shivers underneath the flank of light brown fur. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Harge encourages her to join in. 

“This is a low class act even for you, Harge,” Carol mumbles.

Henry and Howie busy themselves wrapping toilet paper around the hubcap of a truck when one of them points out that both lights from the top windows of the second house have switched on.

“That’s our cue,” Harge speaks out to them in a harsh whisper. He has taken his girlfriend’s toilet paper roll and wrapped strips of it around a mailbox.

Relieved, Carol tugs on the silvery door handle to be let in. All she thinks about is her parents worrying about her, and the fact that it’s 11:20pm— two or more so hours late past her curfew, which was suppose to be 9:00.

Howie belches out a wet, loud burp to the chilly night air as soon as he slides back in. He makes another attempt of leaning sideways to kiss Carol.

She screams. 

A dog lets out a long running of barks from the noise. Howie clamps his hand over Carol’s mouth and shushes her angerily. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Harge snaps at her from the front seat. Henry leans back around and pours the rest of his beer all over the frightened girl’s shoes. Howie pulls his hand away and stares on while Carol is crying quietly to herself.

Harge backs them out and then U-turns back onto the empty streets. He finally drives Carol home— his first drop off. 

She finds comfort to see her parents had left the porch light on for her arrival. Harge has given himself the common curtesy to walk her back up the steps leading them to a red painted door. He grabs her by the forearms and pulls her close.

“We had a good night, didn’t we?” He speaks into her red-tipped ear that sticks out from coils of her golden blonde hair. “Next time it’ll just be the two of us. I promise you.”

“Good night, Harge,” Carol responds back to him stiffly. She tries to turn and reach for the door handle, but Harge shakes her back around to face him. He says nothing but leans in for a kiss.

Carol’s lips tremble through his mouth once she kisses in return. Harge Aird pulls them apart now and has lipstick smeared on his chin.

“Have a good night, Carol,” he tells her. 

“You can let go of me now,” Carol says. 

He releases his grip on her and watches her fumble for the brass handle.

**Author's Note:**

> I gave Carol’s maiden name Catherwood after Virginia Catherwood— one of Patricia Highsmith’s lovers that inspired the actual character of Carol Aird. 
> 
> The rest of the names on here are in relation to Harge— Hence, all of the men start with the letter H.


End file.
